Carnie Love
by Redfeatherz66
Summary: This is the story of how future husband and wife met. Angela Ruskin/Patrick Jane
1. The New Guy

**I have no idea what inspired this. I just suddenly decided, hey, I wanna write about Patrick and Angela's first date. And then this was born.**

**I confess, there are some incontinuities. After I was mostly done, I realized that Patrick is from Iowa. In this, I made like he's always been from California. I'm not sure where Angela hails from, but I decided to make her opposite of him. That part is made up. There may be other errors- mentions of the Ruskin family are few and far between, as well as mentions of Patrick's childhood. I tried to stay in character as much as I could while compensating for things that hadn't happened yet (for example, Patrick hadn't had his family killed yet, so he's slightly less jaded).**

**And, for the record, it was really hard to refer to him as 'Patrick' rather than 'Jane'.**

He'd just finished unpacking, and was walking around to get a sense of the place. It was like all other carnivals- stinky, loud, messy, but through it all, enjoyable and welcoming. He never quite understood how that worked, how the dirty, sweaty carnies and rusty, smoking rides appealed to the general public. He was certain that, if he was a normal boy, then he wouldn't like the carnival.

Of course, he acknowledged his bias. As a carnie kid himself, the carnival lost its mystery and thrill very quickly. They were all the same tricks and shows and rides, just done with different voice acting and costumes.

This carnival was a bit better than the last one, though. Slightly cleaner, a little less greasy. Not as nice as the second place, but after the incident with the crystal, just looking at the place made him depressed. This was the fourth carnival they'd been to. Moving wasn't as frequent as it was for some, but it was still more than what a normal child would go through. The only times they moved was when someone saw through their act or became suspicious, or, like the first, went out of business.

However, at sixteen, he thought it was four more carnivals than he'd ever like to be at. As he'd matured and became smarter, he began to see through his father, from the powerful, awe-inspiring mastermind he'd once seen, to now: a money-grubbing, conniving, con-man thief.

"Are you afraid of fire, boy?" a voice asked him, interrupting his thoughts. He turned to face who'd spoken to him. It was a girl, a few inches shorter than him, with sleek wavy brown hair, one angular eyebrow cocked, and a small, child-like hand planted on her hip. It looked like she was trying to strike a challenging pose. Then he fully registered her eyes, and they pulled the look together so she looked fierce indeed.

"Uh… no…" he replied, staring back blank-faced. She lifted her chin, and suddenly it seemed as if she was looking down on him rather than the other way around. He was thoroughly thrown off by her, still dazzled by her elegant hair… and those eyes.

"Would you put that to the test?" she said. He blinked twice, recovering his composure, and realized she didn't know he was part of the carnival.

"What, do you want me to walk on coals or something?" he asked, adding a nervous edge to his voice. All the while, he was doing the observations he usually did on a mark, noting small details and committing them to memory.

"As if you could. Only an heir of the Ruskin can do such a feat. There is a show tonight, beginning at eight, at the palace tent. Attend, and be inthralled," she intoned.

"_En_-thralled," he said automatically. She blinked. "Not 'inthralled'. It's 'enthralled'." The corners of her mouth twitched- she was fighting back laughter. At what? Him?

"The Ruskin have transcended the concerns of words and the average life. We are beings of fire," she responded in a brilliant save. He suddenly realized she was trying not to laugh at herself, when he noticed the faintest blush on her cheekbones.

_Beings of fire,_ he repeated silently, trying it out. He was caught in her eyes again for a second. _Yes, you certainly are._

"I'd love to see that!" he said enthusiastically. "Can you really walk on fire?"

She laughed haughtily. "And more." She brought her face close to his, staring into his eyes boldly. "See for yourself tonight." And, with one last shocking glance, she turned and left, slipping into the crowd and disappearing. Likely searching for another victim to lure to her show tonight.

He continued his walk, though he wasn't absorbing much of his surrounding anymore. He found himself looking around for a color he could compare to her eyes.

They were amber-gold-hazel. He wished there was a name for such a color for a moment, then decided he was glad there wasn't, because then it wouldn't be so striking.

Her iris had the normal darker, thin, outer ring that divided the colored part from the whites. Just inside that, where the majority of the color resides, he'd seen gold shot through with darker and lighter flecks, like half-mixed honey. Then, around the pupil itself, was a sort of sunburst layer. Most eyes had that part, but hers was… green. It wasn't a fluorescent, bright green, but a mossy, pine-like shade.

The overall effect was stunning.

He wondered for a moment if they were contacts, then dismissed the thought. As unusual as they were, it was unlikely that they were contacts. They seemed natural, even though he'd never seen eyes like them. And if they were contacts, then he didn't want to know. He wanted to pretend they were her real eyes.

Oh, yes. He was most definitely going to that show.

**I apologize that this first chapter is so short- I just want to get a feel for the interest level in this kind of thing. Usually I write whump fics, so this is a new experience. Also, usually I write Doctor Who fics, so changing to a very different show was a challenge.**

**I do not own The Mentalist- rights to CBS. I'll continue with this after 3 review.**


	2. Fire Angel

Even though all he was doing was going to her show, he still put on some of his nicer clothes. Dark jeans that were dark enough that they almost looked like dress slacks, a plain white t-shirt, and a blue long-sleeved button-up shirt. He even found himself rearranging his blond curls in the mirror and wishing he didn't look so young. Or so effeminate. Or so uncomfortable.

He put one hand on either side of the sink and closed his eyes, taking two deep breaths, going through the exercises a yogi-carnie had taught him to calm himself and control his body. _Stop. Relax. Not a date._ When he opened his eyes again, his face was composed. He adjusted his features to a swaggery kind of expression, interested but not too interested, confident and certain, and fixed them like that. Then he left his trailer.

He smiled and greeted the man collecting tickets and money at the door, and slipped through. Carnies didn't pay to see each other's shows. It was an unspoken rule.

Finding a seat near the front, he sat and crossed his ankles, and waited for the show to start. He didn't have to wait long, only about eight minutes. _Seven minutes and forty-seven seconds_, his mental clock told him. When his dad said he was a genius, he wasn't just bragging.

The girl had been right- it was a fantastic show, worth his time for sure. A man and a woman blew fire at each other from ten feet away and appeared to catch each other's flames in their hands. They juggled burning objects. They threw massive waves of fire over the audience's heads, making them ooh and ahh at the show. They shot firecrackers from their fingertips.

Of course, he knew it was a farce. He caught a glimpse of the shiny metal nozzle of the tube in the woman's sleeve, and noted that the lack of smoke meant they were burning methanol or some other chemical engineered for heatless fire tricks. They made colored fire (probably using boric acid and Epsom salts and copper and other materials). But still, fire was fire. It was hard not to be impressed.

The girl didn't come out until the last twenty minutes. She was by far the most spectacular. At one point, her arms were on fire up to her elbows, her legs up to her knees, and her hair (he didn't smell burning hair, so it was an illusion or another special chemical, but he still didn't like seeing that beautiful hair in flames).

Then, they brought forward the long pan that had been burning behind the whole act since the very beginning. Other carnival workers had stoked it until it was an 8' by 2' rectangle of glowing red coals. It was like a table, raised a few feet off the ground. The man (probably her father) held her hand to help her balance as she ascended a few stairs to the pan.

She put an arm over her face as if to shield it from the heat, and turned to the audience with a frightened expression.

"The Ruskin powers rely on the natural fire resistance of her blood and faith. To perform this staggeringly dangerous stunt, the Fire Angel needs our help! Show your support, help her build her faith!" a ringmaster said, voice booming around his mustache as he gestured grandly. The audience jumped to their feet and cheered for the 'Fire Angel'.

She scanned the audience, face determined. Her eyes rested on him for an instant- he hadn't stood and cheered like everyone else, choosing to remain on the bleachers, lounging as if he did it all the time. He flashed her a wink, and her eyes quickly moved on.

After the massive buildup, she stretched out one foot and set it on the coals. Then her other foot. Step by step, she crossed the fire, face alight from its cherry glow. The audience roared. In the excitement, a head of blond curls wove through the crowd and disappeared into the 'backstage' tent.

MNMNMNMNMNMNMNMNMNMN

When the 'Fire Angel' finished her act and retreated to the back tent, she was met by blue eyes and a cocky grin. She swallowed.

"Hello again," she said quietly, sitting at one of the dressing tables and plucking the red gems out of her hair. "Enjoy the show?"

He didn't question her change in attitude, from the threatening girl he'd first met to this shy, polite young lady. He'd already seen that coming- nobody acted like themselves when they were trying to get a mark. Or an audience member, in her case. Plus, her hands- he'd noticed them earlier. They had calluses and looked tough, but her nails were shiny and smooth, showing that she worked hard but remained mostly soft and ladylike.

"Yes, actually. It was really good. Fire skill like that is rare. I'd thought I'd seen it all, but your show was quite spectacular," he replied in a smooth, easy voice that was at once flirtatious and careless.

"I'm glad. I didn't know you were a carnie. You must be new," she reasoned, turning in her stool to smile at him. When she wasn't guarded, it was actually a quite friendly, harmless smile.

"That's right. My dad and I joined this band yesterday afternoon. I didn't expect to meet a Fire Angel in such a little carnival," he taunted, but he flashed his teeth to show that he wasn't being hurtful.

"Actually, it's Angela. I'm sorry, I never caught your name. You are…?"

"Patrick Jane. And I see the trick there- Angela, Fire Angel."

"My dad noticed that it would work first, actually. Thanks. What's your trick, then?" she asked curiously. He let out a proud little 'hmph' and leaned against a dresser, crossing his arms.

"I'm psychic, actually."

"Yeah, and I can actually walk on coals for real," she snorted, tossing her head and turning back to the dresser to wipe off some of her stage makeup. Her hair wafted a smell of clean wood smoke and pine needles to him.

"You have a brother who isn't as good at shows as you, but you love him anyways. Your parents favor you, but he doesn't blame you. Your parents never wanted children when the first had you two, but as you matured they realized you were an asset to the team and could produce ideas that they couldn't think of. You're afraid that they don't really love you, but they do. They just don't see you as a daughter- more as close friend with whom they live with and work with. They love you, but not because you're their daughter," Patrick said smartly. He saw her reflection blush, and took it as encouragement.

"Your favorite color is the color of the sky with a bright moon- dark, rich blue. You like it because you're always wearing red and have red fire and you're sick of it. You spent the first few years of your life in New England, but you prefer the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic, which is the only reason you like California so much. I see your worst fears, and your greatest desires."

"Stop it," she said sharply, gritting her teeth and staring at the surface of the dressing table. "Go away. Please."

"Only if you'll go to the café with me tomorrow at 2," he said cheerfully.


	3. Ladie's Man

**Awkward date time! Poor Patrick… Or I suppose I should say poor Angela! Keep in mind that Patrick is still young and raw- he's not the classy people-person we see on the show today. He isn't jaded or a famous clairvoyant or bureau of investigation-experienced yet. **

**We saw in 'Fugue in Red' how much of a player and a jerk he was- women meant little to him. We know there's something good within him, but in his concussed confused reality, he hadn't met Angela and the events that had shaped his life were erased, and he fell back on his conning and rude personality. That's where I'm deriving most of his teenage personality from.**

**Plus, we saw much of his childhood in 'Throwing Fire', when he got hit on the head and had flashbacks. In this, he's about two years older than he was then. A little more cunning, a little taller, a lot ganglier, a little curlier in the hair department.**

**Anyways… enjoy! **

"Stop it," she said sharply, gritting her teeth and staring at the surface of the dressing table. "Go away. Please."

"Only if you'll go to the café with me tomorrow at 2," he said cheerfully.

"Fine. Sure. I'll meet you at my trailer. I'm sure you can use your psychic skills to find it," she said bitterly. She looked up quickly, just in time to see his face light up in a youthful, delighted grin, and then looked away again. She heard the tent swish shut as he departed.

MNMNMNMNMNMNMNMN

When Patrick got back to his trailer, he went and stared in the mirror for a long time. This was how he attracted girls- acting like he was above them, putting them in their place one moment, then asking them on a date in the next. Making them come to him, but giving them opportunities to. Playing the lead role.

Angela (in his mind, he kept pronouncing it as angel-ah, rather than anj-el-ah like it was supposed to be) had reacted unexpectedly.

He'd dated his fair share of girls. They weren't long term relationships, only a few months at most. Never for more than 8 months. And, so far, his technique of cockiness and pride and detached interest had worked like a charm. But Angela hadn't swooned or batted her eyelashes or flirted back relentlessly. She had done the very opposite, seeming almost afraid of him.

No, no, she would take the bait. She was a girl, and that's how it worked.

He stared into his blue eyes, trying to decipher his true self in their reflections, but to no avail. He went to bed.

MNMNMNMNMNMNMNMNMNMNMNMNM

The next day, he showered and dressed and did the dishes and laundry before his father even woke up. Patrick hadn't gotten up until about ten (it was a Sunday, so the shows were few), but he still had time to do everything before his father got out of bed. When Patrick had returned the night before, at about eleven, his father hadn't returned from his 'card games'. He'd long since learned that the men played cards for a while, drinking steadily, until they were thoroughly inebriated and decided to stagger to the bar a quarter mile away and pick up girls. Luckily, they usually did their 'business' at the bar or at the unfortunate lady's place, so Patrick didn't have to deal with it in their small trailer.

That was actually how Patrick had been born- some woman had dropped him off at his father's trailer, threatening to take all his money and _still_ stick him with the child if he protested. Alex Jane had taken in her genuine gold necklace, furious eyes, and black, business-like car, and agreed.

His father got up at about 1, when Patrick was headed for the shower. He noticed the nice shirt in his hand and the odd look in his eyes.

"You going on a date, boy?" Alex asked, scratching his stomach.

"Yes," Patrick admitted. I made French toast for breakfast, and there's some in the fridge that you can have. I'm not sure if I'll be back in time for supper, so I taped the Chinese take-out menu to the fridge."

"You aren't going out until-,"

"I've already done the laundry and dishes," Patrick said.

"Don't get smart with me. We're a team, remember? Don't be the leader here," Alex said, his voice persuasive rather than threatening. "Who're you going to see, anyways?"

"Angela Ruskin," he replied. Alex's eyebrows lifted almost to his hairline.

"Ruskin? You'd do good to catch her, the Ruskin family is practically carnival royalty. They've got one helluva show, and have money coming out their ears," his father said, impressed. "Don't let her get away. Put on that charm, show her you're the man. Charm her, impress her. You know what to do."

Patrick nodded, and headed for the shower.

He arrived at Angela's trailer at 2:05. Not accidentally- he was usually prompt for everything, but he needed to show her that she needed to work for him, that he wasn't an easy catch. She was sitting at the picnic table outside, dressed in a soft-looking lavender sweater scoop-neck and jeans with the knees ripped out. It was quite a change from the red leotard she'd worn yesterday for her costume.

"Let's go," he said, nodding in the direction of the street. She stood and walked beside him. He didn't have his license, and wasn't sure if she had hers or not. Something about her made her seem older than he was, though he was pretty certain that she was actually younger.

"So where did you roll in from?" she asked as they walked down the sidewalk. She still wasn't acting right- by now, she should be blushing and trying to seduce him, but she was talking to him like he was a friend.

"Farther south. It's too cold here," he said. "And I miss being so close to the beach. I can't surf here unless I take a bus for two hours." Girls loved that he surfed. It always worked.

"I don't know anything about surfing," she confessed. "But I imagine it's a lot like snowboarding."

"Did you snowboard? In New England?"

"Yes, all the time. In the winter, we travel north so we can do it. We go every year for two weeks," she said, smiling at the memory.

_I want her to smile like that all the time,_ Patrick thought. Then he wondered where the hell that came from. _Just another girl. A mark,_ he told himself.

"Snow is for Canadians. I'll stick to the beach, thanks," he snorted.

"Everyone loves the beach," she said, rolling her eyes. "Just because you've never been in snow, and I mean a _lot_ of snow-,"

"I've been in the snow before. Everything was wet and cold."

"I bet you've never seen more than four inches of the stuff."

"It's slippery out, and everyone's slipping everywhere and falling down. It's dangerous."

"Only if you're a snow amateur," she retorted. "Sand has mites and sunburn and it sticks to you and gets everywhere. Snow is clean and melts off. Someday, we'll go snowboarding together. Or skiing, so you won't fall as much," she teased, winking at him. He grinned.

"I'll hold you to that."

"And we'll have a snowball fight, and I'll win. I can see it now," she said with relish, "you throwing up your hands, hair and face covered in snow, surrendering."

He snorted, and she peered up at him.

"Don't tell me you don't know what a snowball fight is," she gasped.

"Of course I know what it is," he said confidently.

"Yeah, right. Enlighten me, then."

"It's when you fight with snow. Throw it at each other and hit each other with it," he improvised pompously. He had a sudden vision of a baseball bat covered in snow, and two people hitting each other with it.

"Oh," she muttered, looking at her feet. She wasn't flirting back, wasn't laughing and saying _Oh, Patrick, you're so smart. I'm sooo sorry I _ever_ doubted you_.

They walked the last half a block to the café in silence. Patrick wondered why she wasn't responding normally. Maybe she was jaded. Or she saw through his act. Or she wasn't interested in guys. A little voice nagged at the back of his head, wondering if it wasn't her that was doing things wrong, but him. He ignored it, and pulled out a chair. She sat in the other one.

"Ahem," he coughed. She looked at him in confusion, still holding the back of the chair.

"What?" she asked, puzzled.

"You're, um, supposed to sit here. See, the gentleman pulls out the chair and the lady sits in it," he said, thrown off but managing to maintain his confident, higher-than-thou act.

"Oh! Sorry," she said, blushing with embarrassment. Which wasn't what the other girls Patrick had dated had done. She got up and sat in the chair, grinning apologetically up at him as he pushed it in gently. Then he sat in the other chair. They both quickly scanned their menus in silence.

A waiter in his early twenties came over, wearing a green apron. "How can I help you guys?" he asked.

"I'd like the salami club and a cup of earl grey. Bring the hot water and bag separate, I'd like to steep it myself," Patrick said without looking away from Angela. She fought back a grin at something, and looked up at the waiter.

"Um… I'd like the Lennon wrap with no mushrooms and an English toffee cappuccino, please," she requested. The waiter nodded, jotting things down, smiled at Patrick, and departed.

"You smiled, a moment ago. At what?" he asked, feigning a vaguely disinterested tone.

"I didn't figure you'd be a tea person, let alone an OCD tea person," she laughed. Then she glanced around to check if the waiter was gone. "He kept staring at you," Angela whispered. Patrick shrugged.

"He's gay," he said as if it were common knowledge. She blinked.

"Oh. Damn, that explains a lot," she sighed. "I come here all the time, and he never gave me a second glance, no matter what I wore."

That was an opening for some real work. Not quite a flirt, but close enough. He leaned forward on his elbows, raising an eyebrow.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he said in a low purr. She blushed furiously.

"Oh, shut up," she said, giggling. "Nothing scandalous, if that's what you're thinking. Get your mind out of the gutter, you fink."

"Takes one to know one, Angela." That _always_ worked, saying something clever followed by adding the girl's name.

She stuck out her tongue, but he saw anxiety in her eyes. Two very negative things.

"Did you ever come here in your costume?" he asked, laughter in his voice.

"Yeah, right. I hate that thing, it's so obscene," she snorted. "And it actually is pretty unrevealing." He had to agree- it was skin-tight, but didn't bare any flesh.

"Poor guy, trying to fend off a crazy carnie girl trying to seduce him," Patrick said with a smirk.

Her gaze became angry. "I'm not like that," she snapped.

"Like what?" he replied, confused.

"Seductive and flirty and easy." She shifted in her seat- he saw from her poise that she was going to leave. Uh-oh.


End file.
